


Umpqua Rushing

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Season/Series 03, Soulmates, Tenderness, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: An ode to these brothers and soulmates, another try at crystallizing their tender love, their first time together. Set during season three--Dean only has so much time left, and Sam had to kiss him. Just to know.





	Umpqua Rushing

**Author's Note:**

> Got massively, randomly inspired by the song "Umpqua Rushing" (which plays during the first scene) and wrote this all in one go. 
> 
> Here is a link to the song:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OxgQDXMN1Fw
> 
> Of summer twilight, your eyes rushing through me deep,  
> I saw my own waters rushing right back to me—  
> You sitting shotgun, the lost coast calling me,  
> Umpqua Forest, your face just like in my dream. . .

> Then the boy is in love, but has no idea what he loves. He does not understand, and cannot explain, what has happened to him. He does not realize that he is seeing himself in the lover as in a mirror. 
> 
>  
> 
> So when the lover is near, the boy's pain is relieved just as the lover's is, and when they are apart he yearns as much as he is yearned for, because he has a mirror image of love in him… though he neither speaks nor thinks of it as love, but as friendship. 
> 
>  
> 
> Still, his desire is nearly the same as the lover's, though weaker: he wants to see, touch, kiss, and lie down with him; and of course, as you might expect, he acts on these desires soon after they occur.  -   _Plato, "Phaedrus"_

 

The music that was playing wasn’t even Dean’s type. He was feeling charitable, feeling particularly fond of Sam right now, god damn it, so he gave Sam control of the radio. They were both a little tipsy, two cans into the celebratory beers stashed away in the motel mini fridge.

 

The music wasn’t even his type, but it was the fucking… it was the weirdly low, warm light of the motel lamps, the tight, private little space they shared, they’ve always shared, and Dean’s walls were down. The only person who could ever bring his walls down, carefully, tenderly, brick by brick, was Sam, and here he was, smiling, and here he was, and he’s done just that.

 

Dean didn’t remember what they were talking about, who had made the last bad joke. They were both kind of swaying to Sam’s music, some kind of hopeful, slow, acoustic indie shit, and it wasn’t even Dean’s type, but he was responding to it. It was saying to him, “here’s your moment,” even though his moment would never come. 

 

They were drifting closer to each other, drawn to each other, always, no way to describe it, not brotherly, not sexual, not romantic, not any of it and all of it at once. 

 

They haven’t spoken in minutes. It wasn’t weird. Sam was in his space, and Sam was smiling, and god, it had been so long since Dean had seen that smile, Sam’s beautiful dimples out in full force, his cheeks super pink because of the buzz, his hair a mess, stray strands in front of his eye, sweaty collarbone shiny in the low light.

 

Sam’s nose bumped into his, and then it was Sam kissing him, out of nowhere. His brain had asked him if he could kiss Sam, and he had said no, as always, but then Sam went and did this.

 

Dean didn’t know how to react. He felt okay, his heart quickening a little in his chest. Sam took a step back but was still smiling, lopsided now, like half of his face knew he fucked up and half of it didn’t. 

 

“I’m--I’m sorry,” Sam said, but it didn’t sound like he was, half-smiling, heart eyes blinking slowly. “It’s just--I wanted to do that--you’ve only got so much time left, and I just wanted to do it before you were gone--” Sam’s voice raised in pitch and speed as he talked, sobriety bumping shoulders with him, his mistake turning his cheeks from pink to pale. 

 

“Sam, don’t,” Dean said, and he must be a hydraulic press, because with each syllable Sam grew more crushed. It was written all over his face, but in a way only Dean could notice--in the look in his eyes, in the finger picking at the seam coming undone from his jean’s pocket stitching.

 

Dean filled in the space Sam had put between them. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby,” he said lowly, smoothly, his voice turning to honey. He was speaking to Sam like he’d always wanted to, like he did in his head but never out loud. It was just happening. Sam and his damn music had made it happen. He was desperate for that smile to come back. “Let us have this, okay?” 

 

Sam’s eyes went big. It was that look that happened a billion times in their childhood when Dean did something mildly brave, or looked after Sam, that look of awed disbelief, but it was colored differently now, it was changed. Sam couldn’t believe him, but Sam wanted it to be true. Dean could read it off Sam’s face because he knew Sam.

 

He could get the smile back later. There was something he wanted even more right now. Dean settled his hands firmly on Sam’s hips and drew their bodies together. He rubbed his cheek against Sam’s, like an affectionate cat, then turned his head just so. Sam turned to meet him, tilting his head, and then they were kissing, and it felt normal, real. It was even better than the first one, it wasn’t brief, it wasn’t unsure, it wasn’t stolen, a moment saved for a much rainier day.

 

Dean held onto Sam and Sam sank into him. Holding Sam always calmed them both right down. Dean hadn’t noticed how little they’d touched recently, but by the way Sam acted now, the noises coming out of his throat, you’d think he’d been starved for it. Dean ran his hands under Sam’s shirt and up and down his back, feeling the warm skin there, the familiar scars and moles, things he’d memorized by touch before but never like this. Never ever like this.

 

They kissed for ages. It took Sam a while to warm up, to fully trust Dean. His hands stayed limp at his sides while Dean’s hands explored his body; it took a new song playing, took Dean nibbling Sam’s bottom lip shiny and swollen for Sam’s big hands to tentatively come up to Dean’s chest, to lightly brush at him as if he were to startle if Sam did more.

 

Dean growled down Sam’s throat, moving his hands up to Sam’s scalp and tugging on his hair. During the briefest of breaths between kisses, saliva linking them together, Dean murmured, “touch me.”

 

Sam complied, his movements growing bolder. His hands ran down Dean’s chest, across his hips and ribs, and bumped down the notches in his spine. Sam’s arms went up and around Dean’s neck, his hands clasped behind Dean’s head. Dean put one hand on Sam’s jaw, fingers curling in his soft hair, and the other at the base of Sam’s back, pressing them flush, holding him close. 

 

Before long, it was a little too much. A commercial break on the radio saved them, and they broke apart, just enough to breathe, to meet each other’s eyes, but still close enough to stay in orbit. 

 

They couldn’t look away from one another. Dean had suspected Sam felt the same, and now it felt impossible to go back, to ever live a life without having Sam like this, without being had by Sam like this. It was easily incorporated into who they were.

 

“So.” Sam’s smile grew slowly. He was being bashful; he was beautiful. He ducked his head and looked up at Dean through his hair, a glint in his eyes. 

 

“So,” Dean repeated, quirking his own smile back at Sam. 

 

Sam searched his face. Dean kept himself open, tried not to shy away from Sam, tried not to hide himself. It was hard to push back against reflex, but he didn’t have time. Every second with Sam was precious, and it took something monumental like this to finally get it through Dean’s thick skull that he really needed to let someone in. There was only one person he’d ever wanted to let in.

 

“This for real?” Sam whispered. 

 

“You’re not gonna wake up saying you had a killer hangover and you can’t remember anything?” Dean countered. 

 

Sam flinched, just a little, but he shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said. Dean didn’t know why they were talking so quietly, but it felt right. No one else deserved to listen, not even the nearest inanimate object. 

 

“So that’s that,” Dean said. He brushed Sam’s hair back behind his ear, smoothed down the rumpled collar of his shirt. “You think we can do this?”

 

Dean expected a smile, but Sam went dead serious, brow furrowed, lips thinned. “We can,” he declared, like Dean needed convincing, like this was some dangerous game they were playing.

 

Maybe as teenagers it would have been life or death. Maybe while they were searching for Dad or working with him it would have been dangerous. Maybe a year ago they would have felt pressured, closeted, paranoid. 

 

Now, though, Dean didn’t feel anything. Now, Dean was free. He didn’t deserve to be given what he wanted the most, and especially didn’t deserve it right before he burned for all eternity, but it didn’t feel wrong or sinful or secretive. It felt like the next step, the next bullet point checked off in Sam’s meticulous plan. 

 

Dean didn’t feel the need to respond with words. Dean kissed him, closed-lipped and brief, but no less full of devotion and meeting. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, then blinked half open, lazy. He’d be purring right now if he could. 

 

Sam’s eyes were multicolored, ever-changing, a confusing kaleidoscope of blues and greens and hazels. Right now, they were darker than Dean had ever seen them before. Dean had seen that viper smile just once before, when Dean had teased Sam about his taste in porn and strayed a little too close to home. Seeing that darkness aimed at him, being the recipient of that killer smile… Dean’s stomach was full of convulsing butterflies. 

 

Sam kissed him then, reclaiming control, deep and dirty- a slip of tongue- but no longer than Dean’s brief kiss. “Say we can,” Sam breathed, their lips and eyes millimeters apart.

 

Dean’s fingers tightened around Sam’s hair and Sam’s eyes fluttered again, his mouth falling open. Dean took a mental note of that, heat stirring in his belly. “We can,” Dean said.

 

They mutually released each other, taking a step back, a breather from the magnetism, the drug addiction of each other. Dean watched Sam pull himself back together.

 

“Wanna go to bed?” Dean asked, and it had no implication. Just a continuation of a comfort they’d deprived themselves of, something they’d both thought they’d never have again.

 

The relief in Sam’s eyes was palpable. He nodded, unbuttoning his shirt and stepping out of his pants. Dean did the same, and they climbed into bed together, clad in t-shirts and boxers. Dean turned toward Sam and Sam turned toward Dean. Dean drew Sam into his arms, and Sam tucked himself up against Dean’s collarbone, squeezing into his space like an octopus. It was as if the last six or so years had never passed them by.

 

Dean slept hard, just blackness, no dreams, but no fear, either, only safety, comfort, and the smell of Sam wrapping around him and sending him drifting away.

 

***

 

Things changed for the better after that. There was no graduation, no series of epiphanies. They shared an implicit, mutual understanding. Sitting across from each other at the diner became sitting next to each other, hands covertly intertwined. Rough pats on the back goodbye became tender kisses, even more tender looks. Rough exteriors became softer, more accepting. 

 

They talked more, and with more substance. Dean was scared. Of course he was. Sam was scared. And furious. Boiling with a deep, deep rage at their circumstances, their botched shot at life, and sometimes at Dean. Their grief ran deep and parallel, and they drew strength from each other, patching each other up with pieces of themselves.

 

It was fucked up and twisted and tangled and irreparable, but it was theirs, and Dean wouldn’t trade this one year for the world.

 

***

 

The first time they fucked was no planned event, no big ceremony, just them.

 

Dean was the big initiator here, but it was Sam who pushed Dean to initiate things in his own oddly shy, tacit way. When Dean popped open the buttons on Sam’s jeans and drew his cock out, jerking him off while they drove to the next town, it was because of the look Sam sent him, the indescribable way he postured himself that let Dean know.

 

It was strange that they didn’t have to think about this new addition to their private language, their dictionary of each other. Dean knew how to read these signs off of Sam without difficulty, and Sam read them from him. They may speak more freely now, but it was almost as if they actually spoke less, saying more with their hands, their eyes, their bodies.

 

The first time they fucked, they were a few days into a hunt. They’d burned a body but the deaths kept happening, and it was back to the drawing board. Sam was doing his usual thing of being the smartest person Dean knew, printing out pages and pages of lore and connecting it all together with his big, beautiful brain.

 

Sam took a shower while Dean lazed about, watching Animal Planet. Some special on tigers. They had a meeting with a college professor tomorrow, and some more witness interviews. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. Dean was concerned for the people, wanted to solve the case, but they’d been here so many times before than his anxiety was at a low point.

 

Sam came out of the shower in just a towel, steam billowing out. Dean sat up, muting Animal Planet. He took an admiring look, no longer stolen and brief with guilt eating his insides. Sam looked back at him, and he had doe eyes one moment, like he couldn’t believe anyone could look at him like that, and the next, the towel was on the floor. 

 

Sam strode over to the bed, climbing into Dean’s lap. Dean put his hands on Sam’s soft hips. Sam leaned down, the still-wet tips of his long hair brushing against Dean’s cheeks as they kissed. 

 

They kissed and kissed and kissed each other breathless. After a certain point, the kisses became deeper and sloppier, Dean’s tongue swiping into Sam’s mouth, drawing little moans and gasps out of Sam. 

 

They were kissing with meaning. They were kissing with intent. Dean put a hand on Sam’s burning hot, heaving chest, and Sam sat up easy while Dean fumbled with his clothes, hurriedly stripping until he was naked, too.

 

Sam’s adam’s apple bobbed as his eyes skated across Dean’s body; Dean let him look his fill. Sam took his time, and there was a misplaced softness to his eyes, like he was memorizing Dean, preserving him in time. Dean couldn’t take that look much longer and put a rough hand to Sam’s neck, forcing him back down into a long, searing kiss.

 

Sam’s hips twitched, and Dean accidentally bit down on Sam’s lip. That brief moment of friction had almost undone him. They looked each other in the eye, pupils blown, and in that split second, that gaze said all it needed to. They kissed some more, and Sam’s hips pressed down the moment Dean’s rolled up, their cocks sliding against one another.

 

It wasn’t enough, but that was just how Dean wanted it. They could hold off for a moment more. They grinded against each other like teenagers, low on coordination, seeking friction, growling and nipping at each other as their hands explored, Sam’s nails skating against him skin and making his toes curl.

 

Dean reached out for the night stand drawer while Sam kissed the oxygen out of his lungs. He found the lube easily enough, sense memory, and popped the cap.

 

The audible noise made Sam freeze for a moment, and that second said so many things, but the desire Sam put into the next kiss said even more. 

 

Dean got some lube on his hand (and on the bed, now was not a time to be graceful) and spread it on both of their cocks to make the friction more delicious. Sam moaned, something deep and slutty, something Dean hadn’t expected. His cock twitched--he was going to try his damndest to pull that sound out of Sam as many times as he could.

 

With anyone else, sex was good, yeah, it was electric. There were looks, touches, pulls. Dean had had his cock and hands and mouth on his fair share of pussies. 

 

With Sam, though, it was different. The sounds meant more, did more to him. Sam’s body meant more, felt like more, like a drug. It shouldn’t have surprised him--no one else had ever made him feel the way Sam did, whether it was annoyance, anger, concern, or love.

 

Sam took control, grinding down on Dean and rubbing at his nipples. While Sam kept them busy, kept the pleasure coming and going in waves, Dean coated his fingers liberally in lube.

 

He put his hand on Sam’s ass cheek. While they kissed, he moved his hand slowly, slowly into the crease of Sam’s ass, then rubbed the pad of his finger over Sam’s hole, not pressing in, just massaging.

 

Sam broke apart from their kiss, gasping.

 

“You like that?” Dean breathed, watching Sam’s eyes squeeze shut tight, biting his lip white. 

 

“I…” Sam blushed, hiding his face in Dean’s neck, but the repetitive twitches of his cock against Dean’s said it all.

 

They kissed some more. Dean added more lube, pressed his finger into Sam. It took a while until Sam jumped in his lap, crying out, and there, that was the place. Dean added more lube and fingers until Sam was trembling in his lap, whimpering and sweating profusely, grinding against Dean like a desperate virgin.

 

In a way, he was.

 

Before long, it was time. “Get on your back,” Dean said hoarsely, all the blood gone from his head. His heart was thundering like crazy. This was… this was natural, this was inevitable, but the anticipation was going to murder him in cold blood.

 

Sam rolled off of him and flopped onto his back, pulling his knees up and spreading his legs. He shot Dean a nervous, debauched look, cheeks flooding with pink, tongue peeking out from between his lips. 

 

Dean rolled over and crawled between Sam’s legs. He kissed Sam to calm them both down. Hands shaking, he slathered his cock in lube, giving himself a few rushed strokes before lining himself up with Sam’s fluttering hole.

 

He pushed in, inch by inch, pausing and pushing, each push accentuated by Sam’s gasps. Before long, he was fully seated inside Sam, and Sam was tight and hot, constricting and loosening around him.

 

Sam’s arms and legs wrapped around him at the same time Dean grabbed Sam up and pressed down into him roughly. He pulled almost all the way out before sinking slowly, slowly back in, listening to the dirty noises Sam (and Sam’s body) made.

 

“Just fuck me,” Sam growled, and kissed Dean hard.

 

Dean kissed him back with vigor, hips drawing back and pistoning forward in much the same way.

 

He fucked Sam good and deep, and the room was filled with a new kind of rhythm--the noise of their bodies coming together, Sam’s “ah, ah, ah,” with every thrust, the squeaking of the bed springs.

 

Sam felt incredible around him, and Dean took a break from the kiss to just get his fill of Sam, to look at him sweaty and red and naked, chest heaving, below Dean, trusting and loving and dark-eyed and heady, body moving with an addictive combination of lust and love.

 

Dean buried his face in Sam’s neck, biting at the sensitive skin there, and let his hips do as they sought, fucking roughly and erratically into Sam, his pelvis smacking against Sam’s ass. Before long, the velvety softness of Sam was too much, Sam was always too much, but right now--god. Dean closed his eyes, groaning like a man in pain as he came deep inside his little brother.

 

Sam whined loudly at that, a high-pitched noise, fingers clawing at Dean’s back, thighs twitching. Dean fucked Sam through his own orgasm, wrapping a slick hand around Sam’s hot cock and stroking him from base to tip, rubbing at the spot under the head.

 

Sam’s hands flew away from Dean’s back, grasping frantically at the sheets, and Sam threw his head back, crying out as he came in long spurts on his tummy, come filling up his belly button. Dean flopped against him, stroking him through the aftershocks. 

 

Before long, they were both boneless and breathless, out of their bodies, out of their minds. It took several minutes for them to come back to themselves, to come down from the high, but when they did, Dean pulled out and rolled onto his back, laying beside Sam.

 

They looked at the ceiling, processing the moment. After a beat, Dean got up and went to the bathroom, wetting a washcloth. He crawled back into bed and cleaned them both up before tossing the washcloth to the side and drawing the covers up over their shoulders.

 

Sam cuddled up into his space. Dean pulled him closer. Sam smiled lazily at him; Dean smiled back. Sam’s hair was a mess and Dean pet it back into place. “You feeling okay?” he murmured.

 

“A little sore,” Sam admitted, but his smile was pleased. “You?”

 

“I’m okay,” Dean said. 

 

He must’ve fallen asleep after that, because the next thing he knew was being slowly jostled out of the warmth and comfort of unconsciousness. Sam was bustling about, trying to stay quiet but failing. Dean watched him lay their fed suits out on the bed with one eye cracked open. He checked the bedside clock. It was a little after six. He must not’ve heard Sam’s alarm go off.

 

Sam was humming to himself, out of tune, song butchered beyond recognition. Moments like these were rare--Dean was usually conked out. He kept still, watching a boxer-clad Sam prepare for their day.

 

Sam started the coffee maker in the kitchenette. Still humming, he moved over to their pinboard of clues and pieces of information, light on his feet like a ballet dancer, staying silent as to not disturb Dean.

 

Sam grabbed a backpack from its spot slouched by the door and filled it with case files, water bottles, weapons. With his back still to Dean, he said, “you gonna get up any time soon?”

 

Dean smiled, rolling his eyes. He tore his gaze away from Sam’s ass and pushed the covers away. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, stretching, yawning, rubbing at his eyes. “Mmm,” he said, noncommittal. “Coffee.”

 

A light hand ran through his hair. “Soon,” Sam said. “Go brush your teeth.”

 

“Mmmmurgh,” Dean moaned, but he had just enough energy to push off the bed and propel himself to the bathroom with a zombie-like gait.

 

He made his way through his morning routine half awake, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, a steaming hot mug full of coffee materialized before him. He took it from the friendly giant and took a sip, moaning with relief as the caffeine made its way through his system. 

 

“The way you make cheap coffee,” Dean shook his head in wonder. Sam’s dimples quirked to life. “God, I love you.”

 

He froze, but Sam, still smiling, leaned forward and pecked him on the nose. “Love you, too,” he said, and the bright look in his eye was more important to Dean than all the sex in the world. More than anything, this was the way he wanted to have Sam.

 

He pat Sam on the ass. “What’s the plan for today?” he asked.

 

Sam launched into a play-by-play of how they’d tackle the case for today, and what they’d hopefully learn from doing it. Dean only half-listened; he trusted Sam with his life on this kind of stuff. He watched Sam instead, letting the soothing susurrus of Sam’s raspy voice warm his tummy. 

 

He didn’t need a house in the suburbs and a white picket fence. He didn’t need that kind of normal with Sam. This normal- them saving the world, side-by-side- that was what he needed. Nothing made Dean feel more whole than having Sam’s complete trust, and trusting Sam completely. They had good people in their lives, but in the end, all he needed was Sam. Sam was the center of his world, the most beautiful, smart, empathetic, incredible person he knew, and Sam deserved to know it. Sam deserved all the “I love you”s Dean had to offer.

 

After months of frowns and tears and days where Sam didn’t eat at all, he had smiles and laughs and kisses and fries stolen from his plate. He had it all.

 

He might only have two months left, but with Sam, they would feel like forever.

**Author's Note:**

> (Again, please, if you can, if you have the time, listen to this song and think of these boys: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OxgQDXMN1Fw)  
> Of summer twilight, your eyes rushing through me deep,  
> I saw my own waters rushing right back to me—  
> You sitting shotgun, the lost coast calling me,  
> Umpqua Forest, your face just like in my dream. . .
> 
> As always, thank you endlessly to all you lovely readers, kudosers, and commenters. You mean the world to me and keep me going. I hope you enjoyed this piece, and I hope you all have a lovely 2018 <3


End file.
